


r-e-g-r-e-t

by dramaturgicallycorrect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/pseuds/dramaturgicallycorrect
Summary: Maybe it’s seeing Liam in something so ordinary as this, kneeling down in front of a classroom door, his hands on his kid’s shoulders and speaking softly to him.Bear’s lip wobbles and he’s nodding very seriously and very deeply. He’s not crying yet, but it’s a near thing. Freddie’s never cried at the drop off, at least not when Louis’ done it. Louis tries not to think it’s because he’s glad to get rid of his uncool dad.It looks too private to interrupt, so Louis stands there on the other side of the hallway, looking like an idiot staring at Liam Payne like he’s some kind of shellshocked fan.Liam has to walk Bear into the classroom, hand in hand, and he’s gone for so long, Louis wonders if he’s not just going to stay there all day. Special guest star and all.Liam exits after a few minutes, scrubbing tattooed hands over his face, looking more stressed than Louis’ seen him do in years. Louis knows exactly what to do with that.[Or Louis finds out their kids now go to the same school.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veryniceandgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryniceandgood/gifts).



> for the great love of my life, fina, for everything she does for me that i don't deserve, the set up for a long slow burn i'll never write her.

One of the benefits of being your own boss should mean Louis can sleep in as late as he wants whenever he wants. But being your own boss has fuck all to do with having a kid, which means in reality, Louis is up at 6.30 am slicing the crusts off a ham and cheese sandwich and trying to fairly portion the chocolate to vegetable ratio.

It’s not an interesting lunch by any means. In fact, Freddie has, on several instances, deemed it _pedestrian_ (thank you, Niall, for that vocabulary lesson, Louis struggled spelling that one) compared to what he could make for himself. But there are some things a father just does, including, but not limited to, making his son’s lunch for the first day of school.

After that it’s a flurry of activity, from Freddie that is, while Louis sits at the island in the kitchen and tries to inhale a cup of coffee as quick as he can without burning his tongue.

Freddie races for the door, but turns around and trudges back once Louis starts calling, “Oi oi oi, get over here.”

He stands in front of Louis, done up in his little uniform and his carefully combed hair. Louis has this flash of panic that he already looks like a grownup, which he simply won’t stand for. If the little lad is getting older, then Louis is getting older, and anytime someone breathes in the direction of the number thirty, Louis feels like he’s going to pass out.

Louis squats in front of him. “Laces tied?”

“Yep,” he says proudly.

“Lunch in your bag?”

“Yep.”

“Game face on?”

“Always.”

“Good lad.” Louis ruffles his hair, which has Freddie moaning and complaining. At the attention, must be, because once Louis shoves him on towards the door, Freddie doesn’t bother trying to fix it.

Louis glances briefly at the frame on the wall by the door before he goes, the picture management had framed of the four of them in front of a sold out crowd at the one night only at the O2 last year. The first and only time Freddie’s properly seen him perform.

Most days he doesn’t know how to explain it to him, what he’s done, but more importantly what it means for Freddie. Why there are days they can’t leave their house, why people follow them in the street.

It was easier when he was younger, probably because he was much dumber then. Different story now. He wouldn’t have thought he’d raise a kid this smart. When he tells Bria that, she laughs but has the decency not to say he had nothing to do with that particular bit.

He talks nonstop, like everything that passes through his brain is worth saying aloud, for better or for worse. Louis knows exactly where he gets that from.

This morning Freddie’s proud they’re not taking naptime anymore, not in the first grade.

“You’re gonna regret that one day, lad,” Louis says, peering at him through the rearview. “About ten years’ time, you’re gonna wish you still had nap time, trust me.”

“What’s regret?”

“Regret,” Louis repeats, then spells it like he does every word he teaches Freddie these days. “It’s like. You could have done something and you didn’t and you feel bad about it after. Or it’s the opposite. You did something you shouldn’t have and you feel sorry.”

Freddie thinks about this for a while and decides, “Well, I don’t regret naptime.”

Louis snorts. “All right.”

He pulls into a parking space to walk Freddie up his classroom for the first time. He’d had to wrap his head a time or two around what exactly an American private school was, the differences from what he’d grown up knowing of private schools. They all seem a bit uppity, these schools for the kids of the rich and famous. But the fact of the matter is, the little lad’s safe here. They’ve got killer security measures and comprehensive privacy rules.

The second Freddie’s within sight of Ms. Callahan’s door, he goes darting off toward the door, tossing a casual, “Bye, dad!” over his shoulder.

Louis keeps his pace toward the door. “Hang on a minute. Come back here. What kind of goodbye is that?”

He throws his head back and trudges over to meet him by the door, like it’s doing him some sort of great pain to throw his arms around Louis’ neck in a good hug.

“Let your old man down easy,” Louis says, even if he does seem a good five years younger than everyone else around.

“Okay, bye dad, I love you,” he says quietly.

“Love you.” Louis smacks an obnoxious kiss against the side of the head and shoves him along, watching him laugh as he goes.

He gives Ms. Callahan an agreeable tilt of his head, and works his way back for the front door. It’s fine, honestly, he doesn’t need to linger. He’s quite used to saying goodbye.

But then he stops in his tracks.

He’s seen Liam since the O2 of course, casual run-ins at industry events. But it’s been a few months. He’d used to see Liam every day, and it was too commonplace a thing to stop Louis in his tracks, to catch his breath.

Maybe it’s seeing Liam in something so ordinary as this, kneeling down in front of a classroom door, his hands on his kid’s shoulders and speaking softly to him.

Bear’s lip wobbles and he’s nodding very seriously and very deeply. He’s not crying yet, but it’s a near thing. Freddie’s never cried at the drop off, at least not when Louis’ done it. Louis tries not to think it’s because he’s glad to get rid of his uncool dad.

It looks too private to interrupt, so Louis stands there on the other side of the hallway, looking like an idiot staring at Liam Payne like he’s some kind of shellshocked fan.

Liam has to walk Bear into the classroom, hand in hand, and he’s gone for so long, Louis wonders if he’s not just going to stay there all day. Special guest star and all.

Liam exits after a few minutes, scrubbing tattooed hands over his face, looking more stressed than Louis’ seen him do in years. Louis knows exactly what to do with that.

“Oi oi, Payno,” Louis calls.

Liam’s face is worked into surprise when he looks up. Louis works his way into Liam’s space for a hug, securing his arms tightly around Liam’s torso, dragging him back a few paces so they’re not standing in front of the door.

Liam tucks his face into the crook of Louis’ neck, for a moment, before he peels himself away. “Hey, Tommo.”

Louis loops an arm around his shoulders, dragging at Liam until his feet are willing to shuffle their way towards the door. It’s like ripping off a plaster, Louis’ learned.

“I had no idea you were starting here.”

“Cheryl’s on tour in Europe,” Liam says, like that’s a reasonable explanation, until Louis gets it.

“For the reunion.” Louis remembers absently absorbing some sort of information about a Girls Aloud reunion tour a few weeks back and buried that information quickly. The thought of a tour brings up too many things he doesn’t want to thinking about. Things he _regrets_.

“Yeah, so we’d decided he’d start school here while I’m working on the album.” Liam runs a stressed hand through his hair. “Kindergarten, mate.”

“Holy shit,” Louis says, then apologizes quickly to the mum next to him who gives him a scandalized look at the swear.

Liam looks after the stragglers running with their parents to get to their classrooms, just as the day’s about to start. “Were we this small then? I can hardly remember anything about primary school.”

“Photographic evidence exists, but I’m convinced it’s a conspiracy, honestly.” Louis pulls the door open for him, bowing slightly until Liam goes through it.

“We’re parents,” Liam says, sounding stressed about it.

“We’ve been parents for a lot longer than our kids’ve been around, mate.” He refrains from calling him Daddy Direction, though he thinks Liam could use a good eyeroll. Why anyone let them be in charge of anything -- an album, a band, a business -- idiots that they were.

Louis doesn’t feel much like an idiot these days, at least not the irresponsible kind. He watches his mouth a lot more, because the kid’s always listening now. He attends meetings in something other than sweatpants. He can’t remember the last time he bought a stupid fucking car he’ll never drive because he can’t fit a car seat in the back.

Liam looks after the closed door, his lip nearly wobbling himself. It’s a sight.

Louis has three meetings, a big shop for some ingredients he’s never heard of, and someone coming by later to look at the dodgy toilet downstairs. So he says,  “Hey. D’you want to take a walk?”

Liam’s eyes find his until they can’t anymore, a grin growing until his eyes scrunch up like they should. “Yeah, love one.”

Liam understands you don’t just take a walk here. You take a drive to take a walk, somewhere gated ideally, with enough trees the paps can’t get at you too bad. Louis directs them to the park Freddie’s football league play in, parking their large SUVs next to each other.

“Didn’t know you were on school duty,” Liam says, likely cos last school year Louis was still on weekends only. It’s nice that he remembered.

“We’re alternating weeks. Have to buy him two of everything because he gets frustrated with himself when he doesn’t remember to pack all of his stuff.”

He’d still been hot and heavy into the label when he started keeping Freddie over at the tail end of kindergarten, letting his assistant watch over him while he jumped on the phone. That hadn’t lasted long, Bria was insisted their kid wasn’t going to be raised by an assistant. “If you’re gonna parent him, _parent him_ ,” she’d said. Louis had never felt so mortified in his life.

They keep talking about their kids, because anything else - the music, the lads, the nasty arguments about who’d wanted a tour and who didn’t -- none of that is safe. There’s a commiseration in kids parents always have, especially British ones raising their kids in America.

“He said elevator the other day, I almost had a stroke,” Liam moans.

At least his kid’s got the accent, not that Louis’d ever say that to anyone. He’s wondered what it’d be like, to hear those curving Yorkshire tones on his own kid. “Yeah, I never exactly thought I’d have, like,” Louis trails off, having difficulty saying it aloud.

Liam doesn’t. “An American kid.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have asked Bria to raise him in Donny or anything, but. I dunno, I don’t get to take him back as often as I’d like.”

That’s not the least of it, really, that he won’t look at Doncaster as a second home, as Louis does. That he won’t know the places Louis’ mum raised him. He won’t have the same pitches Louis would moan and complain about until the girls went for a kick about with him. He won’t purposefully ask his mum to go out of their way just so they can pass the Rovers Stadium.

“It’s still home,” Liam says. It’s always nice to hear them say it, married to LA as the four of them are these days. Always so close, but they always feel so far away.

“It is.”

Louis turns, heading for the pair of swings that have no business trying to hold the weight of two grown men. He settles in one anyway, ignoring the way the chains cut into his side. He waits for Liam to sit next to him before he nudges himself forward into a lazy back and forth.

“How’s yours doing? He looked a bit sad this morning.”

Liam’s quiet for a while, in a way he really hasn’t been around Louis since Louis’ cracked him open. “He misses his mum.”

Louis nods, somehow managing to stop himself from asking, _do you miss his mum_? He can see it in the curve of Liam’s shoulders. It’s been a year or so, Louis figures if he’s got the maths right, and honestly shocked Liam hasn’t been seen out with anyone since. But then again, Louis’ single too, and they two of them have, more often than not, been accused of serial monogamy.

Once he’d asked Eleanor, curled up around her, petting at her side but keeping clear of the bruise on her hip from where they’d knocked her over. He’d asked Eleanor, “Do you think I ruin lives by touching them?”

El had said something kinder than he deserved, something about making the world brighter with his music, with the love he’s shown. She didn’t get it. Or maybe she did and she didn’t want to tell him yes. The second someone’s pictured with him, they’re the subject of international scrutiny, their privacy’s trashed. There’s no shielding anyone from it.

Even when he’s dated someone in the business, it’s never been enough to keep them, that self-awareness. Not that he knows that’s what had ended things with Cheryl. Louis’ never asked, because somehow it’s never felt like any of his business. There was a moment, sometime in the last five years where Liam’s business stopped automatically becoming Louis’ business.

It’s something he regrets.

So he changes tactics, recalling what Liam’d said earlier. “So rumors are true, yeah? When can I expect your second album?”

“I dunno. Just sort of. Taking it one day at a time.”

“One week at a time. One year at a time. As per usual. We’ll wait ages.” Louis swings his legs out to push himself a little higher. It’s only a matter of moments before, to his delight, Liam follows suit.

“My process, it’s like -- ”

Louis snorts. “Don’t talk to me about your process, lad, I’ve been all over it.”

“Reckon you have,” Liam says with a small grin. “Not much has changed.”

Dark recording studios, a haze of smoke from cigarettes they shouldn’t be allowed to have indoors, the stench of sweaty men and greasy pizza. Embarrassing, really, when he thinks back on it, but at least they’d been together.

It wasn’t ever about that for Louis, the sort of all eyes on me mentality of being a solo act. He’d always loved to share, always wanted to have a partner in crime. But they’d all come at this to do it on their own in the beginning, even though they were kids when they’d started. He reckons that’s not an easy impulse to lose, even if you had to bury it for some six years.

And sure, he’d done the solo thing, same as any of them. It wasn’t the same, and sometimes he felt like he’d just been pulling himself along purely by the power of his mum’s promise.

Louis shakes that thought away and finds once he’s no longer pushing the conversation, it dies.  He skids his feet in the wood chips and comes to a stop, waiting for Liam to stop with him.

“D’you wanna, like, come over for dinner?”

Liam looks surprised by the invitation, but then turns pensive, tapping at his chin instead of immediately saying yes. “What’re you having?”

“Ratatouille.”

Liam thinks about it for a moment, then says, “Like the mouse?”

“No, the dish. What -- why would you think the mouse? The mouse isn’t named Ratatouille.”

Liam’s hands go flapping in embarrassment as he says, “I didn’t know, I haven’t seen it in ages.”

“Dear god, Payno, we’re not eating mice.”

“Sorry.” He pulls an exaggerated frown. “Why are you making ratatouille? I don’t even know what that is.”

“Honestly, me neither, mate, but Fred, he cooks with Bria’s mum, he’s like a little Masterchef. He’s already told me I’m not allowed to touch anything. I’m just supervising. And grabbing ingredients out of cabinets he can’t reach.”

Liam lets out a laugh. “Kids.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, because sometimes that’s all you can really say about it.

Liam walks him to his car, like right up to the car door, looking like something’s on his mind. Louis nearly snaps, _out with it_ , just so he feels like he’s not doing all the work here, but Liam says instead, “I’d love to.”

“Mm?” Louis asks, trying to connect it.

“Come to dinner. You got room for two?” Liam scrubs at the back of his neck, looking uncertain even though Louis’ the one who invited him in the first place.

He pulls in Liam for another hug, this one no quicker than the last, because Liam looks like he really needs it. “Always.”

“We should do this more often,” Liam says into his shoulder.

“We should.” They’re always so close, and they never do.

Liam pulls away. “Why don’t we?”

“Things. Stuff,” Louis says, instead of the truth.

The things we’d said last year, heated and passionate. The stuff we’ve fucked up, and there’s no going back. Tour, no tour, sixth album, no album. The one night only concert they’d ended up with that everyone hated them for, read as a sign of insecurity instead of a triumphant goodbye.

Louis loves to say I told you so, but he never has.

“Yeah,” Liam says, like he knows the truth. They’ve built a mountain between them, and it seems like they’re in no shape to scale it.

“I’ll see you at seven, lad,” Louis says as he gets into the car. It’s not a question.

“We’ll be there,” Liam says as he closes the car door for him. It’s a promise.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what happens when you read 200k of your old favorite lilo fics while you're on bedrest for three straight days. i'm not actually here, i just... gotta get it out, right?

“You’re not slicing it thin enough.”

Louis makes an offended noise, curling his hand tighter around the knife he won’t let Fred use himself. Because he’s a good and responsible parent. “I am so.”

“No, you gotta do quarter-inch slices.” Freddie taps at the iPad until the recipe barks at them, eggplant sliced by the quarter-inch, three cups’ worth.

“What do you know about maths, you just learned the alphabet three weeks ago.” Louis only wishes that was true, remembers all too well Freddie stomping around with a recorder someone had given him, blowing a furious, tuneless note in between shouting each letter of the alphabet. 

“ _ Dad _ .” 

Louis’ lips curl up into a smile as Freddie sighs, all put upon, streaking out of the kitchen, perhaps in protest, but more than likely just to prove Louis wrong. It’s what they do -- Louis loves to take the piss because he’s a dad and Freddie likes to prove him wrong because he’s a kid and kids know everything. Tomlinsons, the two of them, through and through.

He comes back with a ruler, a small six-inch plastic thing he’s been using to measure everything ever since one was requested on his list of school supplies, and together they determine Louis’ been rather generous with his slices after all. 

He lets Freddie stack them all painstakingly into a swirl layered into the pan over the tomato and Béchamel sauces, they cover it with parchment paper, which is different from wax paper, Louis’ learned, and let it go for close to an hour.

Payno rings just on time, of course he does -- probably arrived fifteen minutes early and sat out in the car just so in case Louis wasn’t ready to receive him. 

Maybe. Maybe he’s not like that anymore, Louis realizes he doesn’t quite know.

Bear’s eyes are on his shoes, still the precious brown oxfords the kids have to wear to school, but Liam’s smiling up at him, one hand on Bear’s shoulder, the other cradling a bottle of red wine.

“Hi, lad,” Louis says to Bear specifically and gets a small smile for his efforts. 

“You remember Louis?” Liam says gently, and it puts a twitch in Louis’ chest.

He looks up at Liam and he steps aside to wave them in. There’s a moment where Louis thinks he should hug him, but the moment’s passed. 

“Did you bring a wine?” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you drink wine?” Louis says, wondering if he should have asked what Liam wanted in for dinner. Usually he’s a bit of a  _ take what you can get and be happy about it _ kind of host. 

Liam looks caught out, his eyebrows crooking up. “No.”

“Neither do I.”

Liam sets the bottle on the kitchen counter when he’s reached it, twisting it so the label shows, this ornate, swirling black and gold thing. “Yeah, but this is what adults drink.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Adults do whatever the bloody hell they please, or at least they’re meant to, until they have kids. Then they do whatever the kids want. “I’ll have to find an adult to force this onto. Haven’t seen one in ages.”

Liam makes a face at him and Louis makes one right back, turning quickly so the twist in his stomach doesn’t show on his face. He makes like he’s checking on the pan, that Freddie’s had his eyes glued to for the last twenty minutes at least. 

He tries not to feel like he’s playing a part just because this is what they’re meant to do. He reckons he should let it all go, the way he had for just the one night, when they’d all been there at the X Factor for him, and Louis didn’t care about the rest of the bullshit. He didn’t care about the secrets and the disagreements, only the warm press of Liam’s chest against his, the low, soothing murmur of his voice in Louis’ ear.

He catches the way Liam’s eyes linger on the framed picture of them in the hallway and lets his feet carry him all the more faster through the house.

The four of them stand in the kitchen quietly, Bear still staring at his shoes, Freddie still staring at the pan, and Liam staring at the wall. Louis wouldn’t call comfortable silence one of his strengths, and uncomfortable silence is miles worse. 

It’s too much an echo of the past, but also completely brand new.

“Fred,” Louis says, turning him away from the stove by the shoulders. “Why don’t you go show Bear your protractor.”

Freddie’s face drops, a perfect picture of indignation. “But -- ”

“I’m gonna plate it, lad, just like the picture. We eat with our eyes and our mouths,” Louis says before Freddie can himself. One of these days, he’s going to cancel the Food Network off his cable package. Only the Food Network.

He watches the two of them go, and thinks all over again he can’t believe Liam’s got a kid.

He’d thought it a bit, back on the X Factor, back when they were at each other’s throats --  _ Liam does what I do, after I’ve already done it, and better _ . Liam sings his parts second and better, until they’d forgotten they’d even asked Louis to try them at all. 

They’re not at each other’s throats anymore, haven’t been in years. They’re not… anything, haven’t been in years. 

They’d covered loads of ground earlier at the park, all the safe topics covered. Whatever’s left is. Going to sink the night immediately.

Louis unearths a corkscrew somewhere, this massive, black, dick-shaped contraption someone had gifted him the last time he moved house for god knows what reason. It’s still in its original packaging, so Louis peels it all off and stares at it for some time.

He works out how you get the thing onto the bottle, presses a button until they’re greeted by the sound of drilling, the screw into the cork no doubt, but when Louis tugs at the thing, the cork doesn’t come out.

“Do you -- ” Liam makes an aborted jerk forward, the crease between his forehead strengthening with his concern.

“I’ve got it.”

“I think you press this button.”

“I’ve got it,” Louis says, sharper. He presses the button anyway, because Liam’s always right, isn’t he, except when it really matters.

Liam steps away, his face perfectly placid like it used to get whenever Louis’d piss him off and he didn’t want Louis to know. Louis grits his teeth and thinks,  _ well done, mum would be fuckin’ proud of that. _

He pours Liam a healthy amount to make a point, himself a couple of sips worth. He tilts the glass in Liam’s direction and downs it like you those small cupfuls of rubber-tasting cough medicine. Only. “Shit, that’s actually good.”

Liam looks similarly impressed, similarly baffled down at his wine glass. “I know.”

He tips a fair bit more into his glass, letting everything he once knew to be true about the world wash away. “Beer tastes like piss.”

“ _ I know _ .” 

“Score one for Payno,” Louis says, earning himself a smile from Liam, crinkles and all, like just thirty seconds ago he wasn’t chanting in his head,  _ Louis’ a twat, Louis’ such a fucking twat. _

Louis gets the itch to be on his best behavior, which he sort of hates, because he knows he’d thought at the park he needs to fix things with Liam. He doesn’t even know if he wants to, just that he has to, that he’d promised, he’d sworn it to his mum, he wouldn’t live his life this way, bitter and petty at real or imagined slights from people he’s meant to love.

And he loves Liam. He remembers that part of himself clear enough, he thinks it might still be there.

“Is this -- French music?”

It is, in fact, they’d found a French Bistro playlist on Spotify. It’s all wistful violin, soft voices, and earnest accordion and, honestly, a little sleepy, but. “It sets the mood,” Louis says haughtily. 

“Of course,” Liam says seriously, playing along, and it earns him a grin as well.

They plate the ratatouille carefully under Freddie’s supervision, take a picture for Instagram and Tammy from four different angles until he’s satisfied. 

“This is positively beautiful,” Liam enthuses.

Freddie beams, so pleased with himself and the rest of them, that Louis reconsiders his policy on the Food Network, just for a moment. 

They settle in for a proper nice dinner, at the dining table and all, instead of squatted in front of the television like Louis does when he’s home alone. Freddie insists Bear sit next to him, the two of them chattering away -- well, Freddie chattering away about the art of French cooking and Bear smiling up at him, dazed. Louis knows the feeling a bit.

None of them appear to be quite certain how to go about eating it, so they’re just sort of stabbing their forks at the tower of slices until something holds. Louis keeps his face perfectly passive as he chews quickly and swallows. The tomato sauce is a bit of all right, masks much of the taste, but the rest of it --

He hasn’t considered hiding bits of his dinner in a serviette for at least fifteen years, but it’s a near thing tonight. 

Freddie looks down at his plate, his face crumpling as his fork taps at the plate.

“What’s wrong, lad?” Louis asks.

“I hate it.” His voice wobbles, on the edge of tears. 

Louis catches himself before he breathes a sigh of relief. It’s genuinely awful.

“It’s not that bad,” Liam tries. He looks over at Bear for help, but he doesn’t find any. Bear’s shaking his head, too stunningly honest in that way kids always are because they don’t know how to be any other way.

“That’s all right,” Louis says, reaching out but not quite able to get Freddie’s hand from across the table. “You win some, you lose some. And at least the pictures are bloody great. Yeah?”

Freddie sniffles, breaking Louis’ heart in two. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Louis repeats, thinking for a moment he should shoulder the fault, all the ways he could have made it shit so that Freddie doesn’t think it’s his fault. But all he wants to do now is fix it. “Pizza?”

“Yeah,” Freddie says, the saddest  _ yeah _ pizza’s ever gotten in the whole history of pizza.

He points at Liam. “Pizza.” 

“Yes, please.”

“Pizza?”

Bear just looks at him, wide-eyed, before flicking his eyes back to Liam for permission. Liam nods, and Bear says, “Pizza,” maybe the only thing Louis’ ever heard Bear say, which makes it a double win.

The pizza is brilliant, honestly, can’t fuck up a classic. 

Louis grins after Freddie, dragging Bear back to his room to show to show him what being a Real Big Kid is like. The occasional burst of laughter from his provides the soundtrack once the French shit is gone, as Louis sits on the sofa, staring at his last glass of wine instead of at Liam.

He’s halfway to being entirely off his face from sucking down half a bottle in about an hour. More than half a bottle. Liam’s only had the one glass, hasn’t he, driving home. 

Louis had shuffled through a couple potential topics --  _ how come I had to find out Cheryl was pregnant from a tab _ .  _ How come you didn’t want to travel the world with me again _ \-- y’know. The usual. But Liam’d just picked up talking, chattering away like he does when he’s nervous.

He’s circling the room, reacquainting himself with Louis’ life by looking at all his shit instead of talking to him. Liam’s never been here, not in the three years Louis’ had this house. Louis’ eyes shift over the framed pictures, the awards, the clay bits and bobs Freddie’s painted for him at school. These are just parts of a whole, crumbs, not anything close to who Louis’ become. A completely different person than the one Liam knew. 

Louis drains the last of his wine. He hasn’t gotten pissed in a minute, swallows hard and remembers why. He feels idle after, without a glass to distract him, his fingers itching for a cigarette even after all this fucking time. 

Liam plucks out his own album out of the shelf of music in the corner, still in its plastic wrapping. Shit. 

“That bad, huh?” Liam’s voice is quiet, just on the edge of teasing, but the way he doesn’t bother turning towards Louis means he’s hurt.

Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s the 21st century. I streamed it.” 

“Niall’s is opened.” Casual observation, innocent enough -- means Liam feels gutted. Sometimes it’s like he hasn’t fucking changed at all.

Louis doesn’t say he hasn’t even got either of Harry’s, but the only reason he’s got Niall’s and Liam’s is they were sent to him. There’s no need for physical media, these days, everything’s all in the cloud.

He’d sort of expected them all to land where they did, at least sonically. The other four of them were blagging on about honesty, vulnerability, trying to reach at the very core of their hearts with their albums. And then Liam’s coming through with the club tunes, with a bass drop instead of a soul, fucking outselling them all.

Louis can’t even begrudge him, not really, but he finds his mouth saying anyway, “You did well in the end, on the charts, didn’t you, so I reckon that’s really what matters.”

Liam’s shoulders stiffen and he tilts his head just enough to see Louis out of the corner of his eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Louis knows exactly what it means -- he didn’t hear Liam in any of those songs. He didn’t hear the thirty-odd songs they wrote together anywhere on that. He heard a stranger, a well-produced front. 

“It’s -- I dunno, I reckon your album was a bit more. Surface level. Than I’d have expected from you.”

Liam turns to him then, fight in his eyes, the way they’d been when he’d said going on tour again would be a regression, that they were rather beyond all that. Louis’d hated the fight then, isn’t sure if he hates it now. 

“I wanted to make music that felt good,” Liam says, trying for level and failing. “I wanted to do stuff that made people feel happy. And I did.”

“I’m not saying --”

“Just because I wasn’t crying on every track, like, chest cracked open to see my fucking broken heart doesn’t mean what I’ve done is worthless,” Liam says, with the fury of someone who’s said so before, who’s well versed for this fight.

Louis has no idea who else would have called him on it, but hates that someone has. Almost as much as he hates himself for it. He’s being a bitter little shit and he -- this isn’t who he is anymore.

“You have  _ no idea _ ,” Liam starts, quieter, before he stops altogether, frustrated with Louis, but more than likely frustrated with himself. His lips press into a thin line like that’ll stop him from going on.

“I’m not saying that,” Louis repeats softly, even though he very much is. It’s been a minute, because alcohol sometimes makes him mean. When it’s not making him sad. Or numb.

Liam tosses his album onto the shelf, not sliding it in where it belongs, not that Louis blames him. He’s got his dad face on when he turns back to Louis and says, “Listen, it’s late.”

It’s broken -- whatever impossible spell had brought them back together, it’s done, magic all worn out. Because Louis can’t stop running his fucking mouth.

“Yeah.”

“I should.” Liam gestures to complete his thought.

“Yeah.” Louis picks himself up off the couch on the third attempt, shuffling in his socks upstairs to Fred’s room, the soft pad of Liam’s feet, still in their shoes even after all this time, behind him. 

Bear’s asleep on Freddie’s bed, curled up at the foot, his face scrunched like something’s bothering him in his dreams.

Freddie looks up from where he’s sat on the floor with his Legos, caught out, even though Louis can’t exactly pinpoint if he’s done anything wrong. “He fell asleep.”

“He’s had a big day,” Louis says, beckoning for him. “It’s about time for you to get to bed too, lad.”

“Five more minutes!” Freddie gets to his feet nonetheless.

“Yeah, five more minutes of you getting in your jimjams and washing your teeth. Let’s go.” He gives Freddie a nudge in the head as he passes.

Liam crouches by the bed, running a soft hand through his kid’s hair. He hauls Bear up gently, keeping him tucked carefully to his side, murmuring quietly when Bear stirs a bit.

He’s a fucking dad. They both are.

He walks Liam out, figuring all the ways he can fix it, when he wonders if he should. It’s one of the only honest things he’s said to Liam in over a year. But he’s mean to be adult enough to know that doesn’t make it right.

He walks Liam all the way up to the door before he has the wherewithal to say, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Liam surprises him by answering, “No, you shouldn’t have.”

It feels like a longer conversation than when one of them’s got a kid in their arms, if Louis can get up to it. He’s spent a fair few years burying it rather successfully, even if it was at a cost. 

“You can stay. I’ve got -- a guest room.”

Liam looks down at Bear, rubbing his thoroughly tattooed hand up and down his back. “I can’t -- I’ve got to get his uniform and like lunch and stuff tomorrow.”

Right, it’s a school night. Louis takes a step back, with the door in his hand so it doesn’t feel like a retreat. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Liam’s eyes drift past him to the frame on the wall beside him before finding their way back. “But. Maybe on the weekend?”

“Yeah.” They’ve done their bit now - close enough to the  _ let’s get a drink _ dance of platitudes everyone in their industry, neither of them making firm plans. Louis gives him a nod just before he closes the door.

He looks over at the picture on the wall, each of them looking like they’ve been to the top of the world, not stopping for a moment to think the only other way is down.

He knew it was going to be this way, all the way back in 2015, he’d known it’d be a dormant email chain, tweets that do more to placate the fans than each other, empty promises of future get togethers. 

But even then, he never thought it’d be Liam he’d be the furthest from. He’d thought they were understood. When he’d pictured the future, Liam was there -- fucking around in a studio writing with him, trading demos back and forth, or hell, just coming over for dinner with him and Fred.

He massages at his chest, pretending like  _ you remember Louis _ hasn’t been sitting heavier on him than he’d like it to.

Louis lets the weight fall off him on the walk upstairs, pulling pieces to tumble back down the stairs until he can’t see them anymore. He’s done what he can, not his best, but what he can. 

He gets the kid in bed, the goodnight facetime to Bria complete, bedtime story read. He makes it all the way to bed, flipping on  _ Breaking Bad  _ where he’d stopped his semi-annual rewatch the night previous before his phone chimes, a text from the bear emoji.

_ free saturday night? _

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! If you need me, I'm [here](http://wickershire.tumblr.com).


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